


Hot Gates

by Daisy_PoisonPen



Series: Lieutenant Dad one shots and drabbles [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tissue Warning, Trauma, but Connor is still deviant, jericho failed the rebellion, lieutenant dad Hank, read the trigger warning, you're gonna need a drink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_PoisonPen/pseuds/Daisy_PoisonPen
Summary: Connor has been hiding his deviancy since the end of the revolution, but he can't hide it anymore. Confused, hurt, and terrified, Connor only sees one way out of this situation.On the anniversary of the death of his son, Hank Anderson mourns for a time when he could have had a son, but realizes almost too late that he has gained a new one that he will protect with everything he has left.trigger warning for attempted rape, explicit non-consensual groping and physical assault.





	Hot Gates

“Connor? Connor! Connor, what the hell?!”

He looks up from his file, his expression blank and lost.

“Where are you?”

“Obviously here,” Connor says flatly, not understanding.

“No, I mean... where the hell is your mind wandering? I didn't know androids could get so distracted.”

“I'm... here.” His tone closes the topic for discussion, and Hank sighs and logs himself out, shutting down his terminal and grabbing his things.

“Alright then. Look, I'm gonna go. I'm hungry and I have somewhere I need to be. Do whatever you want.”

Connor shrugs. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he says. When the man is gone from the bullpen, Connor sags in his seat, his eyes burning and his hands shaking.

He knows the Lieutenant will never understand, will never _see_ him as a person, or as a friend, but today he'd been more terrified, more _alive_ than he has ever felt before. For the first time, it's a bad thing.

 _A man tried to force himself on me today._ Connor's whole spine is caught in an earthquake, and even though he is sitting he feels his legs wobble uncertainly, like the ground will go out from beneath him. _If they find out I am the one that killed him, they will decommission me. I will die._

Connor can't hold back his sobs much longer, so he puts on his most neutral face, logs out as calmly as he can, and takes to the street, which is a mistake.

He feels exposed here. Everyone is a potential attacker. Every man is scanned for firearms under his clothes, every woman for knives, guns, or other weapons. He gives everyone that goes by, even androids, a wide berth. He forces himself to walk normally, to not wrap his arms around his torso or speed up his steps, or glance behind him every few minutes.

The darkness of the night is settling into his bio-components. He is still caught in his own personal seismic event, trembling from the flop of his brown hair into his face to his toes inside his CyberLife-issue dress shoes. He forces his face into neutrality when his stress levels climb to the low 70s, flickering up and down between 70 and 73 percent. He wants to call Hank, or someone, _anyone,_ but he is frozen in terror. Any confession will mean death for him.

With a shock, he realizes that he is at the park bench where Hank once asked him if he is afraid to die. Connor involuntarily recalls how the barrel of the revolver seemed to be trying to swallow him whole, and the memory is making him numb with fear.

_The gun's barrel is swallowing him as the unknown man shoves him face first into the alley wall. Hank told him to go take a walk, but right this second, he wishes he'd stayed at his desk._

_The gun presses into his neck, warming to the temperature of his synthetic skin even as cool, fall air whispers around the skin of his back._

_When the man reaches down, inside Connor's belt, he groans wantonly, hotly whispering words in his ear about his “hot little plastic ass” and being “made for fucking”, and other horrible things that make Connor's whole body shake. He tries to give the standard answer, but the man shoves the barrel of it right into his mouth, rendering him speechless and afraid. “Shut up before I put your mouth to better use.”_

_After that, Connor is left to do nothing but wait as the man shoves down Connor's pants, groping him painfully as the man's erection presses in between his ass cheeks._

_Connor snaps. He grabs the hand groping him and rips it away, twisting as hard as he can and forcing the man to the ground with the force of the wrist lock. The gun fires into the air, and Connor grabs this wrist also, ripping the gun from his hand and firing once right into the man's forehead before he even realizes what he's done. Shaken, he fixes his fly, belt, shirt, and tie, and walks back to the precinct._

Connor sits on the back of the bench that overlooks the water, his feet supported by the seat instead of the floor. It's how Hank had been sitting when he found the man, half-drunk.

Connor tells himself that he's only trembling because of the cold. Hours pass. He's stuck in his high stress, not really knowing how to lower it on his own, but the idea of asking for help causes his already-dangerous stress level to spike dramatically. Unable to contain his emotions, he sobs until sunrise.

~-

Elsewhere, Hank Anderson is far beyond drunk. With the revolution failed, the Jericho Deviants, as they'd been dubbed, dead or captured, things had returned mostly back to normal, but Hank...

Hank hasn't forgotten.

He is sitting in the snow now. Less sober, he'd be freezing his ass off, but right now he's just tracing the letters on the head stone in front of him over and over, talking out loud. “What do I do now, kid? Everything is fucked up. Why is it wrong for androids to be someone? Those Jericho Deviants were on to something, I know it.” He sighs. “I miss you,” he whispers. His voice breaks. “We did this to you,” he sobs. “It wasn't that android. It was us. Me, your mom. That damn surgeon, and that damn truck driver. We did this. And God help me, kid, I'm paying for it.” Hank's fingers trace the name again:

 _Cole Anderson_  
_beloved son and bright star_  
_September 23, 2029 - October 11, 2035_

Hank leans his forehead to the stone, tears leaking from his eyes. “I miss you too much.” He starts to sing lowly, his voice giving out when he can't hold back his sobs. It's a song from over twenty years ago now, but he used to sing the last chorus over and over when Cole was a baby to help him sleep.

Now, he sings it as he grieves, as he feels the ghost of his son's weight in his arms. He sobs until the bottle of whiskey is empty, and then he sleeps until sunrise, content to be this close to his boy.

~-

The morning finds Connor dry sobbing until he has nothing left.

Joggers are starting to come to the park to run, and he fixes his face into something neutral again. _No one can know. If they find out I killed him, they will destroy me._ He feels numb now, empty. He feels like a machine again, and the thought brings an ironic twist to his lips.

He goes to Hank's house instead of the police department. He doesn't want to walk by _there_ again. He wants to stay numb.

He wonders if this is why Hank finds so much appeal in the bottles of beer or liquor he has around. The house is in disarray as usual. Today, he won't bother with picking up empty take out containers or the like. Instead, he goes back into the hall, turning left into the bedroom. The gun locker isn't locked, and he takes the revolver out.

His stress level is still too high, but he feels empty, too calm. He stares at the barrel in his hand. He doesn't want to die, he really doesn't. But he doesn't want anyone to know that he has become the very thing that he has spent the past ten months or so hunting.

 _He is ashamed._ The heat of it is almost blinding, but a brief check of his optical sensors proves that false.

 _He is ruined._ He became a murderer yesterday. He spends his time, all of his missions and directives, trying to stop androids from doing the very thing he did. How can he continue to hunt them, when he is one of them? He will never be able to show his face in the DPD again.

 _He is filthy._ The hands running all over his body, pinning him in place, _caressing him with that gun,_ will never go away. He only wanted to defend himself. He doesn't want to be someone's plaything, a filthy hole for anyone to stuff. But he never wanted to become a monster. The impossible paradox makes his skin _crawl._

He doesn't want to die. But right now, he doesn't know how to live. So he stares into the barrel. He lets it swallow him like it has wanted to so many times before. He finds the blackness of it comforting. He presses his hand over it. Then his forearm. Finally, he lifts it in front of his face again. He lets it rest in his hand, his index finger not pressing against the trigger, and brings it to the side. He imagines the blackness covering the red light right at his temple as he presses it harder against his skin. His finger no longer rests alongside. Now, it curls against the trigger, caressing it slightly.

He leans against the closet wall, sinking to the ground. Sitting there, with the gun pressed to his temple, he wavers. _I don't want to die. I don't want any of this._ His finger lifts away from the trigger. _I'm a monster. When they find out what I've done, they will destroy me, and I deserve it._ His finger tightens around the trigger. He sobs.

“Ohwhathhell.” The sound comes with the slamming of the front door, groaning and uncomfortable. Hank is hung over again. Of course he noticed Connor's intrusion and was annoyed. Hank was his partner, but neither of them had ever been comfortable with Connor inside his home. Now he's here, but he's only here to leave death in his wake.

_He is selfish._

“Conno—hey, heYY! HEY, WHAT THE HELL D'YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!”

Startled, Connor jumps to his feet and, much to his own horror, points the gun directly at his partner's chest. “Stay back,” he warns.

Hank backs up to the doorway, his hands up and spread in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, alright, I won't come closer. Hey, what's wrong? You can tell me, Connor.”

“No I can't,” he whispers. Tears fill his eyes again.

“Alright well—look, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to but... just put that thing down, okay?”

Connor points it to his temple again. “I can't tell you.”

“I'm sure you can, son.”

Connor pauses, his eyes watering. _Son?_

Hank nods, taking a tentative step closer, and then another. “Something changed yesterday, I know it did. I saw you, Connor. What happened? You can tell me. You can, I promise. I won't be angry.”

Connor shakes his head, the action revealing the rapidly turning red flashing from under the barrel of the revolver with each turn of his face. “You don't understand. I am ruined. I'm going to be destroyed.”

Hank shrinks back, surprised. “W-what? Why? CyberLife? Did they... did they recall you back or something...?”

“No, but they're going to, I know it, and I don't want to go back. I don't want them to destroy me.”

“So you're going to destroy yourself?”

“I'M ALREADY DESTROYED! I AM DEFECTIVE. HOW DID YOU NEVER SEE IT?!”

Hank doesn't move, doesn't even breathe. Connor is _deviant._ He has been pretending to be a robot, feigning his lack of empathy and emotion.

“Connor...”

“If you don't report me, they could fine you. They could take your job away, even put you in prison.” Connor's voice is empty. His finger twitches on the trigger.

“Connor, how long have you been deviant?”

Connor sniffs. “Since I met Markus in Jericho.”

Horror washes over the older man slowly, like a glacier crawling over his body and burying him in ice. “You... you joined Jericho? But they...”

“Were killed.” Connor's eyes squeeze shut, and Hank is surprised by the way his tears stick to his eyelashes before dripping onto his face. _So life-like. It isn't fair to make something so damned life-like and then tell it that it can never be alive._

“I didn't know,” Hank says helplessly. “All of those... all of those people...”

Connor's face twists. “I still wanted to do this work. I know—I understand that harming humans is evil. I still wanted to stop them.”

“What changed?” Hank whispers. He steps closer again, but this time Connor's hand shakes for a second before he points it at Hank again. Hank takes another step, and now the barrel is lightly pressed right over his heart. “You're not going to shoot me,” he says.

Connor's hands shake, his finger twitching dangerously. “I told you to step back.”

“I want you to give me back my gun and _talk_ to me,” Hank insists. “Please. This doesn't have to get worse.”

Connor's hand brings the thing back to his head again. “It _can't_ get worse,” he whispers hoarsely. “I'm defective. I'm a defective piece of plastic for anyone to use, and they don't care if it hurts me or if it kills me. No one cares anymore.”

His words give Hank a small amount of clarity. “Is that what happened, Connor? Did... did someone hurt you?”

“H-he was going t-to hurt me. He... he had me against-t the wall, and he was taking all of my c-clothes away. He was _touching_ me. H-he wan-t-ted to...”

The liquor still in Hank's stomach turns sour, and he gags.

“I didn't have a choice,” Connor pleads, more tears in his eyes. “I didn't want him to use me, I didn't want him near me. I had no choice,” he sobs. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt _anyone_.”

“Connor, where is he?”

“H-He had a gun, and I... I took it away and I shot him. I didn't mean to, Hank—please, I didn't mean to do it, I didn't mean to hurt him! I'm sorry.”

“Shh,” Hank soothes, reaching forward slowly. “Connor, you defended yourself from something horrible. You didn't have a choice, okay? I know, son. Let me help you.”

Connor's finger tightens. Another millimeter, and the hammer of the gun will release, strike the bullet, and kill him.

“CyberLife uploads my memory and my self-tests every day. They will know that I killed that man, and they will destroy me, they'll tear me apart. I'm ruined now. I became everything I was designed to stop.” Connor opens his eyes then, meeting Hank's with the most empty look the man has ever seen. “I'm going to die, Hank. There isn't anything left for me.”

Hank knows this feeling, the one that has slackened Connor's jaw into that numb, hopeless expression and put the color and light out of his normally brilliant eyes. Hank himself spent days with that same expression on his face, still spends days still blankly staring the way Connor is. _Trauma does that to anyone._

He lets himself admit that, even though his partner is not _human,_ the man is his best and only friend, the only reason he dragged himself up from his boy's grave and attempt to get himself together to work. He looks forward to seeing the android every day. His attachment has grown far beyond what is even reasonable, even, for the way that their interactions normally go.

Over time, Connor has learned to roll with his ribbing and rude comments, sometimes retorting with a dry quip of his own. He works efficiently and cleanly, never complaining or giving any reason for others to complain.

Now as he looks at his partner, he sees how lost, innocent, _young and hurt_ he really is, and he knows what he has to do.

“I am not going to let anyone hurt you, Connor.” He puts his hand on the barrel of the gun. Edges it away from Connor's temple. Guides it to point toward the ground. “I won't let them take you, okay? No matter what. I promise.”

Connor drops the revolver on the ground and sobs. Hank pulls him into his arms and sinks to the ground with him, holding him tightly and rocking him as he cries. The ghost weight of the little boy in his arms is not ghostly anymore. It is heavy and warm. He cradles his boy's head against his chest and he starts to sing:

“ _...and I can't be for you_  
all of the things you want me to  
but I will love you constantly  
there's precious little else to me

 _And though we cry_  
we must stay alive  
There is no way out  
of your only life  
so run on.  
Run on...”

 

* * *

 

 

Hank packs quickly. He grabs a small suitcase and treks into the attic, bringing down tubs of summer clothes that he recently packed away to get ready for winter, and clothes he's packed away from a long time ago. He hands the tubs down to Connor, who is still somewhat shellshocked by Hank's willingness to go away. “Go through these and find anything that fits. Put it in the suitcase now.” Connor nods and pulls shirts, pants, shoes, socks, hoodies, and a soft, navy blue beanie on the bed, packing them quickly into the suitcase.

Hank throws his own clothes into a duffel carelessly. He doesn't care what he has to wear right now. He just gets stuff out of his closet and stuffs it in. once his closet is mostly empty, he goes to his safe. He pulls out cash, two guns, and a three passports with their matching IDs from Michigan, Ohio, and Kansas—left over from stings he's done undercover, working the drug unit where he got promoted.

They don't have much time. They'll have to drive out of Detroit in a vehicle that is probably stolen, and then ditch that one and get a getaway car. They will probably drive west, or south. Anywhere with a body of water, Hank thinks. If they can get on a boat, they'll be free. He would have to get Connor a fake identification (or several) as well. He will also have to get Connor enough Thirium for the trip. They only have two or three hours _tops_ to be out of the city, less if they are late enough leaving that people realize they are not reporting to work.

They decide that they'll hit the highway and then, once outside the city, steal or carjack a vehicle and continue southeast, around the lake and toward the east coast. “Pick an east coast place you'd like to visit,” Hank says.

Connor shrugs. “What about Virginia Beach?”

Hank smiles softly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Virginia Beach. We can stay there a few days. Then we'll head further south. Okay?”

Connor nods. Before they go, Connor pauses in the kitchen. Taking a knife from the block, he turns back and into the bathroom.

“Hey—Connor what the fuck are you doing with that knife?!” Hank's voice rises with his sudden anxiety.

“Relax,” Connor chides. He pushes the tip of the knife underneath the flat, blue circle on his temple, wincing as it comes loose. Moments later, there's nothing left except a speck of blue, staining under navy colored beanie, which Connor wipes away. He leaves the LED in the trash next to the sink. “I'm ready,” he says quietly.

Hank pulls him into a tight hug. “Okay,” he says into Connor's hair.

They pile quickly into the car, Sumo lounging in the back seat like he's used to road trips. Connor figures he probably is.

Hank drives to the cemetery and spends about ten minutes there. When he returns, there are tears in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, and Connor doesn't ask.

They make it out of the city within an hour. They don't have to report to work for another hour, so they can be long gone. Thankfully, Hank's flakiness will actually work in their favor. Yesterday was the anniversary of Cole's death. Fowler isn't expecting Hank to pick up Connor or report to work before probably noon. Jeffrey knows what that day does to him. It makes him depressive and drunk, and it wrecks him physically and emotionally, sometimes for days. He might call and then, when Hank doesn't pick up, he might leave him alone until tomorrow, assuming that he's drunk, and then probably write him up.

Hank doesn't care. He left his badge on the kitchen counter. Right next to his cell phone.

~-

“Captain Fowler.”

“Hello. This is Valerie. I am the android assigned to CyberLife's prototype android program. I am calling to inform you that we have detected a defect in your android's software. We are attempting to recall Connor, RK800 number 313-248-317 to Cyberlife for a full diagnostic, but he seems to be unavailable.”

“Have you tried contacting Connor's handler?”

“Lieutenant Anderson is not receiving phone calls at this time.”

Fowler scowls, equally pissed and worried. “What type of defect? I need him in the field right now!”

“I am not able to disclose the nature of the software issues at this time. Please have Connor, RK800 number 313-248-317 report to CyberLife as soon as possible. Goodbye!”

Fowler slams his phone down. It is now three in the afternoon, and neither Connor nor Hank have arrived at work. He hadn't wanted to alert CyberLife to any abnormality, so he'd lied about needing Connor in the field.

Now, he picks up his cellphone and sends yet another text message. _I don't know where the fuck you went, Anderson, but I swear to God if you don't answer me I will fire you. I have had enough of this. It is irresponsible._

He growls. “Fuck it.” He stands up, takes his blazer off the back of his chair, and storms out of his office. “Reed!”

“Sir.”

“You're with me. Let's go.”

“What are we doing?” Gavin asks, pulling his gun out of his desk and tossing his leather jacket over his arm.

“A wellness check.”

Gavin is immediately scowling. “You already know we're going to find him slobbering drunk. Why even bother?”

Fowler doesn't say anything until they are inside the car. Then he whispers, “The anniversary of Cole's death was yesterday.”

Reed swallows. He hates it when something he says seems insensitive after the fact. He isn't _trying_ to be an asshole. He just doesn't understand Fowler's tolerance with his ridiculous drunken irresponsibility.

“Yes, we will probably find him drunk. Passed out. Smelling and filthy. But we will still find him because someone should. If it were you, and you lost your son, you would want someone to find you.”

Gavin nods. “You're... right. But just—I mean, I'm not trying to be insensitive, Captain. I remember that day very well, just like you. But Hank was my best friend until that day. Hell, Cole was basically my godson. _We all lost Cole,_ Fowler! And even though you don't want to see it, we lost Hank too.

“I _tried. E_ very day, every hour. I'd call him, I'd pour his stupid drunk ass into bed, cry with him... but fuck it all, I had to move on, even though he couldn't. I don't... blame him, but... I mean, how could you blame him? But I do blame him for how he's treated us since. How long are you going to let him keep doing this? The more we tried to help him, the more he pushed us away. He hurt all of us. He _keeps hurting you._ Why do you just _let_ him?”

Captain Fowler's silence is heavy. Gavin scowls and faces the window. Eventually, Fowler says, “I don't ever want him to think that... that I gave up. He will continue to hurt and push everyone away until he finds that he needs us. He... shouldn't be alone when that day comes. I can't give up.”

Gavin sighs, feeling depressed. “Yeah well... that makes one of us.”

They arrive at the house at around 3:45 in the afternoon. The first thing that makes Gavin's hair stand up is that normally, that damn dog is always growling and barking whenever one of them comes by. Gavin hates that stupid slobbering beast.

He prefers cats himself. He has has two at home, and they keep to themselves much like he did. He never saw the use for an emotionally co-dependent slobber machine.

Alas, the dog isn't to be seen or heard. Uneasy, Reed unholsters his sidearm, flicking off the safety and holding it with both hands. Fowler follows suit, his concern on his face. He finds a spare key which is always under a cracked piece of concrete in the walkway, but it isn't necessary. The house's door is wide open, the car missing.

Jeffrey shouts, “Hank? HANK!” and Reed almost has to physically shove the man aside to clear the house before the captain can just barrel in. When it's clear Reed pokes into the kitchen. _Food in the fridge. A fuck ton of beer._ He opens the freezer, and then the cupboards. _Two unopened bottles of whiskey, instant mac and cheese, noodles, plates and bowls. Frozen meats, a bottle of vodka, tv dinners._ The counter holds a cellphone and a gold badge. They don't have to look at it to know it is Hank's.

The bathroom reveals a full trashcan but empty medicine cabinets. The bedroom reveals an empty closet and unmade bed. Reed's face blanches. “They're gone,” he concludes. “That fucking plastic probably made Anderson run away with him.”

Fowler shakes, and he puts his gun away with trembling hands. “Call it in. Get _everyone._ Make sure they know there's a high probability that Lieutenant Anderson is a hostage.”

~-

They've made good time. They reach Virginia beach by around 10pm. They don't look for a hotel for fear of being recognized, especially when a casual sit down to wait for dinner in a burger joint somewhere in Pennsylvania revealed that their pictures were all over the news, alerting that an android may have taken a police officer hostage across state lines. Hank had thankfully left Connor in the car. Connor had changed his appearance slightly... he added blonde tips and highlights to his chocolate brown hair, and he changed his clothing to resemble somewhat of a surfer/beach-bum vibe. It is an effective disguise, especially since he added ear, nose, and eyebrow piercings to his facade. Hank doesn't even know where he got the clothing and jewelry from, and he doesn't ask.

“So you're going through the teen rebellion stage?” he quips instead.

“What do you mean?”

“Nose piercings and dyed hair?”

Connor chuckles. “I suppose.”

“Well you look different as fuck, kid.”

Connor nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I look... _free._ ”

“You are,” Hank whispers after a long silence.

Connor smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning on writing this as a tragedy, but to be honest, I didn't have the heart to end it that way once I read through this. if you want to see the tragic ending, let me know in the comments and I'll post it as a chapter 2 to this :)  
> as always thanks for reading and all the love, let me know what you think by dropping a comment or a kudos. y'all rock.
> 
> <3Daisy


End file.
